


The clouds blew off from a high and frosty heaven

by Neurotoxia



Category: The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, First Meetings, Gen, M/M, Minor Injuries, Slice of Life, Snow, Winter
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-20
Updated: 2015-12-20
Packaged: 2018-05-08 00:38:58
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,679
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5476523
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Neurotoxia/pseuds/Neurotoxia
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Thranduil is trying to get some work done before the holidays when he's interrupted by his upstairs neighbour sailing past his window.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The clouds blew off from a high and frosty heaven

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Orchidofthefandoms](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Orchidofthefandoms/gifts).



> Happy Secret Santa to my recipient! 
> 
> As I'm off to a holiday in a couple hours, I'm afraid this has been barely edited. I apologise for the roughness and I'll give it a proper editing once I'm back.

Thranduil sits at his desk facing the window and sorted through his insurance papers, reviewing which he'd renew and which to exchange for a better one. He's left it for weeks now for he loathes dealing with Lackaffen circling him like sharks to get him to put his signature on the dotted line. It's snowing outside, has been for days, enveloping the city in a thick white cover. 

He has a fondness for the winter and living a little outside the city centre with a park across the street gives him ample opportunity to admire the snow. Once he's through with the papers he'll reward himself with a cup of mulled wine in front of the fireplace. It's been burning for two hours now, warming the sitting room. Above, Thranduil hears the patter of feet and heaving objects. His neighbour appears to be putting up the tree or something similarly heavy. He hasn't had a tree or decorations since Legolas moved out, though he quite likes looking at them elsewhere. 

There’s a cup of tea sitting at his elbow, steam curling upwards. He’s allowed himself a small shot of rum in the tea; it had been his father’s go-to remedy for colds and Thranduil’s been labouring under the aftereffects of one for close on two weeks, refusing to take off time from work. The need for legal counsel is particularly high at this time of the year -- even if he makes it home at around six, it’s usual for him to work from his office there until well into the night. Legolas made him promise that he wouldn’t find any files stacked on the coffee table when he’d come to visit on Christmas Day. Thranduil considers hiding them under the sofa for the day.

He sighs, irritated by the flowery language of the insurance offers and reaches for his mug when a yelp and a sudden shadow passing in front of his window catch his attention. It’s followed by a thud from below and Thranduil is on his feet, turning his shutters to see better outside. Outside in the snow, a person is clearly visible. Did they jump? Fall? They’re moving, so Thranduil sets his mug on the windowsill, grabs his keys from the hall and runs down the flight of stairs to the ground floor.

The bundle in the snow groans and is already half sitting up. It’s a man and as Thranduil crouches down, he recognises his upstairs neighbour. Bard Bowman, Thranduil knows from the label on the mailbox above his own and from having had to retrieve one of his packages there. Thanks to his infinitely nosey downstairs neighbour Gandalf he’s also informed that Mr. Bowman moved in two months ago after his divorce and that he has three children who visit every other weekend. He owns a successful sporting goods store on the high street, specialising in long-, compound and crossbows. (Thranduil never asks for the gossip, Gandalf seems to enjoy talking at him just as much as talking to him. Thranduil hates both.)

“Are you okay?” Thranduil asks and gingerly puts a hand on Bowman’s shoulders. He’s rubbing his tailbone and pulling a face. It's a handsome face; on that account he has to agree with Gandalf. 

“I think so,” he groans, then turns to look at Thranduil. 

“What in god’s name were you doing?” Thranduil chides and offers his hand to his pained neighbour.

“Putting up lights outside the windows,” he grumbles and takes Thranduil’s hand, allowing himself to be lifted with careful movements.

“While it’s dark, cold and slippery from snow?” Thranduil asks. “Brilliant plan.”

Bard throws him a disgruntled look. “My kids are visiting tomorrow. I wanted to have at least a bit of a festive look.”

He hisses once he’s upright, favouring his right foot. It doesn’t look broken to Thranduil, but he’s only studied two semesters of medicine before switching to law.

“Are you dizzy?” Thranduil asks and studies Bowman’s face, hard as it is in the dark with the next lamp some yards away. It’s a handsome face nevertheless – Thranduil has entertained that particular thought before once or twice. “Did you black out?”

“No, just sore,” he receives as a grumpy answer broken off by another hiss prompted by another attempt to put weight on the foot.

“You should go to A&E,” Thranduil says and steadies Bard. 

“Hell no,” Bard snorts. “I’m not going to sit around for three hours so they can tell me to put some ice on my ankle and send me back home.”

“You fell from the second floor,” Thranduil insists. “You could have a concussion or worse.”

“I’m fine. Nothing a bit of ice, a finger of whiskey and a liedown won’t cure.”

“Or you fall into a coma,” Thranduil adds. “Is there anyone with you to keep an eye on you?”

Bard shakes his head. 

“If you refuse to go to A&E, you’ll stay at my flat for the evening,” Thranduil says with a touch of finality. 

“Oh no, I won't impose on you.”

“You falling into a coma I could have prevented would be a lot more inconvenient for me,” Thranduil says drily. “I have no other plans tonight, so I might just as well make sure you won't jump out any more windows.”

“I did not jump,” Bard huffs, but allows Thranduil to support his weight, slinging Bard's arm over his shoulder. He smells of cologne and something he must have cooked earlier. He smells lemongrass and chili. “Won't your family mind?”

“You didn't notice yet that I live alone?”

“Don’t you have a son?” Bard asks as he leans onto Thranduil who leads him towards the door, careful not to slip on the ice that’s built up under the snow. “I could’ve sworn I’ve seen a kid around that looks like you.”

“I do have a son,” Thranduil agrees. “But he has got his own flat. Legolas only pays the occasional visit.”

“No wife?” Bard nearly slips on the same ice Thranduil has been avoiding and clutches Thranduil’s shirtsleeve. 

“Not for some time,” Thranduil relents.

“I’m prying,” Bard sighs. “Sorry.”

“No, it’s fine,” Thranduil says as he unlocks the front door. “Fifteen years is a long time to be bitter about your wife running off with your former best friend.”

He hasn’t heard from her in years, actually. There were half-hearted attempts to stay in touch with Legolas, but those too ceased a long time ago. As far as Thranduil knows, she now has two other children and Thranduil can’t help suspecting it’s why she lost interest in Legolas.

“Ouch,” Bard winces in sympathy.

Thranduil offers Bard his arm while he hobbles up the stairs one step at a time. Thank heavens he lives on the first floor or this would take forever.

“Well, I buried her in court in the divorce,” Thranduil shrugs and unlocks his front door. “Full custody for me.”

“Yeah, I’m not looking forward to that bit,” Bard sighs and grimaces. “The split wasn’t _that_ bad, though not that good either.”

“Do you have a good solicitor?” Thranduil asks and helps Bard sink down onto the couch, gesturing for him to remove his show and put his foot up. “I can refer you to a number of decent ones.”

“Right. You’re a barrister, aren’t you?” Bard says and gingerly removes his shoe from his foot.

“I see we speak to the same nosy neighbour,” Thranduil sighs and throws his keys onto the coffee table. Legolas once bought a bowl to put the keys in. Usually, it sits on its table in the hall empty.

Bard looks sheepish. “Yes, he certainly likes to talk.”

“That he does.” Thranduil puts a pillow under Bard’s foot and throws him the remote for the telly. “I’ll get some ice and ibuprofen for your foot. See if you can find something on tv without Father Christmas in it.”

“You wouldn’t happen to have that finger of whiskey, too?” Bard aims a hopeful smile in Thranduil’s direction. A lesser man might have swooned a little over it.

Thranduil clears his throat. “I’ll see what I can do.”

He knows he’s got enough liquor to keep them drunk for a month, but it’s hardly information one volunteers during the first meeting. The icepack is hidden deep in the freezer under a bag of peas and his favourite chocolate caramel soy ice cream, but at least it’s intact. Thranduil wraps it in a tea towel before digging through his stash for the scotch – falling from a window deserves a triple, he reckons.

With the ice pack and the scotch he returns to the sitting room, taking a moment in the doorway to observe Bard who hasn’t noticed him yet. The light from the fire in the hearth His ponytail has come a bit undone and he’s rolled up his presumably damp sleeves to unveil a set of forearms that makes Thranduil’s throat run dry. If he’s got the biceps to match them, Thranduil will have to watch his alcohol intake so he won’t start pawing at them. A well-toned upper arm is his achilles heel. As is a scruffy beard and long hair and Bard sports both.

Yes, definitely watch the alcohol intake.

“Oh, that is good stuff,” Bard praises Thranduil’s choice of drink once they’ve both settled on the sofa with Bard’s swollen ankle wrapped up in ice. 

Bard has chosen Top Gear as entertainment, which isn’t Thranduil’s favourite, but he figures he can survive it for one evening. 

“More is available,” Thranduil says and raises his glass. “Happy Christmas. To less falling out of windows in the new year.”

“Oh, I don’t know,” Bards chuckles and a cheeky smile appears on his face. “It’s landed me in a handsome man’s flat with excellent drinks. I might just do it again.”

Brazen. But Thranduil’s always appreciated forwardness.

“Or you can just knock on the door next time,” Thranduil replies, dropping his voice to a lower pitch. “I always have a drink for a man with well-defined forearms.”

“It’s a date.”


End file.
